


Angel With A Shotgun

by IWillBeTheEndofYou



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic Violence, F/M, Gen, Hannibal giving justice, because duh, it was kinda cathatric, some very violent ideas here, someone does die, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 12:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5127611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWillBeTheEndofYou/pseuds/IWillBeTheEndofYou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal is an ER doctor. One woman comes in a bit too often with the same injuries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angel With A Shotgun

**Author's Note:**

> MIND THE TAGS! There is domestic violence here, so if you find yourself triggered, take your pretty head somewhere else, okay?

It wasn't the first time she'd been in the ER, and it wasn't the first time she had those injuries. Hannibal knew her name, if not her face. He knew too well the way her eyes didn't rise to meet his, knew too well the bruises on her arms and ribs she brushed off to clumsiness, to slipping down steps, to playing too rough with the small girl who always came in with her.

The husband, the father was conspicuously absent from these visits. Although Hannibal had heard tell that he dropped them off at the entrance and sped off. She was never the most urgent patient, and so they waited alone in the room. The girl, quiet with wide suspicious eyes, often climbed into her mother's lap, tangled fingers in her hair as she fell asleep. The woman never slept though, always watching the door.

This night, she'd come in much earlier than usual. He must have gotten drunk early, Hannibal thought. Not even half past five, and here she is, nursing her wrist and having the swelling over one eye showing. It was a slow night though, and so at least she didn't have long to wait. Hannibal stepped into her room, the girl laying on the exam table by her mother, watching the television switched to cartoons.

“Good evening, Mrs. Kaysen.”

“Good evening,” she murmured in reply. He looked from the chart to her and sighed. 

“Your wrist then? What happened?”

“I fell in the yard. I was running after Marian, and there was a rock.”

“And your eye?” he raised an eyebrow.

“I didn't catch myself very well.” she shrugged. It was a flimsy excuse, but she knew the game. They couldn't call the police, the child showed no signs of injury, and so it was a private matter. No agency would come to protect her unless she wanted and clearly she didn't. He sighed and set down the chart.

“Why do you keep going back to him?”

“Excuse me?” her good eye narrowed. Hannibal had gotten her hackles up, he knew. He leaned against the sink and eyed her for a moment before crossing his arms. Don't bullshit a bullshitter, he thought.

“Off the record. I've seen you in here so many times. Don't you know that one of these days he's going to kill you?” why was he saying this to her? She knew, she had to know. Why did he care? Or was it less caring and more that he was curious why someone would do this to themselves.

“For her,” she gestured to the child after a moment. “He doesn't lay a finger on her. I know it's in him to do it, though.”

“All the more reason for you to leave.”

“Dr. Lecter,” she swallowed. “You don't understand.”

“I understand that there are shelters. There are restraining orders. The laws are in place to protect you.”

“Do you honestly think a man willing to do this to me is going to obey the law?” she raised an eyebrow. “Because he won't. He's already told me. If I leave, he'll kill me. And then what will happen to Marian? Foster care? Do you know what kind of hell that really is?” she snorted.

Hannibal did, as a matter of fact. But he felt that was not a detail the woman needed to hear in her current state. He just pursed his lips and looked at the young child, with her dark hair that was pulled into a messy ponytail. She looked at him and smiled shyly. Her eyes were her mother's. Even her whole face was a mirror to the older woman's. Only she carried much less weight in her eyes. It wouldn't stay like that for too long, though.

“Besides, because he hasn't hit her, I'll have to share custody.”

“The law says--,” he began.

“That I cannot withhold his child from him.” she sighed. “I'd have to wait for him to do something to her, because he would. And I might not know for a very long time. It's too dangerous. This way is only dangerous for me. I'm the buffer between them, and I will gladly take the shots for her.” she bent her head and kissed the girl's forehead.  
“Can't you try to see?”

“I think I do.” Hannibal murmured. “Let me see your wrist, Mrs. Kaysen.”

****

He followed them for three weeks. He knew what time she came home off the city bus, her hair still in the bun from her waitress job. He knew what song she and Marian sang as they walked the block home from the stop, skipping over cracks. He knew when she woke in the morning to take that bus to drop first the child at daycare, and then herself at the pancake house she worked at.

He knew, too, that Mr. Kaysen came home every night at six thirty, slamming the door to his pickup. He stumbled up the steps, always clutching the brown paper sack. Some nights he could hear the shouts and breaking glass. And some nights, either they were quiet or he passed out before he could put hands on her. He hoped he was the latter, but he knew better.

Hannibal also learned that Mrs. Kaysen and Marian left every Thursday afternoon and walked the mile and a half to a counseling center. A little digging had shown a support group for domestic violence survivors. It was a grim comfort that at least she got to be away from him for that little while, and he was ususally passed out when they came home. A small respite, a little peace in lives' that clearly needed it.

Now all he needed was to wait for one more Thursday. He sat in his car, watching them start on their walk. Marian was pointing to a tree, and Mrs. Kaysen was saying something about it. Bright child, inquisitive. He liked the way she giggled, cupping her palms against her mouth. He liked the way Mrs. Kaysen smiled in return.

When they were safely around the corner, he let himself out of his car and crept towards their backdoor. She never locked it behind them, and it was an okay neighborhood to do that. Hannibal was grateful, it just made his job easier.

The smell of alcohol hit him hard, his delicate nose picking it up quickly. A large recliner, patching with some duct tape, rested in one corner of the room. It was surrounded by empty bottles of gin. A remote control, stained orange with some kind of snack chip residue, rested on the end table next to it. The rest of the house seemed fine. There were vases with cheap fake flowers, and picture frames with photographs of them.

The one that drew Hannibal's eye was the one on their wedding day. They were younger, Mrs. Kaysen a bit thinner, her smile shy and sweet, like Marian's. Mr. Kaysen was smirking at the camera, his arm possessively over her shoulder in the white dress. 

Hannibal knew that expression. He sneered and went to sit far from the door, to wait.

He didn't have to wait long before the man stumbled in. He kicked off heavy boots at the door and made his way to the chair. He flopped down, opened the bag and produced a fresh bottle. He lifted the remote and instantly found a sports game, turning it up loud.

“Angela!” he bellowed. “Where's dinner?” he paused for the response. Nothing. “Oh right, dumb bitch is doing her quilting club.” he snorted.  
“Hope she remembered to leave something in the oven for me.”

He reached under his shirt to scratch his stomach and slouched down, cracking open the bottle. Hannibal stepped from the shadow then. The knife weighed heavy in his hand as he walked on cat feet towards the recliner. In one heartbeat, it was against the man's throat.

“Good evening, Mr. Kaysen.” he purred. “I am an acquaintance of dear little Marian.”

“What the fuck?” he gasped, barely managing not to jump. 

“She told me that someone has been hurting her Mommy. Don't you know it's very rude to hit women? And there's nothing worse in this world than rudeness. So tell me, Mr. Kaysen. What's to be done about that?” 

*****

It didn't make the papers. It was ruled to be a suicide. Marian, at least, hadn't seen the dark stain of her father's blood spreading on her mother's carpet. Hannibal wondered how Angela had looked when she saw it. Was it guilt, or relief? Was it a delectable mixture of both?

Either way, she never did grace his ER again. And Hannibal couldn't have been happier.


End file.
